Arion: Lord of Atlantis #1 rises from the depths in November 1982


It was November 1982 when a kid walked into the 7-Eleven in Aspen Hill, Maryland, and one of the greatest comic book issues of all time was just sitting there on the spinner rack: Arion: Lord of Atlantis #1, published by DC Comics. Now, there's no salesman or carnival barker in a comic book shop, much less a convenience store, to sell you on one title or another. The cover has to close the deal, and Arion #1 had one that could reach from the depths to reel in the pre-adolescent buyer hook, line, and sinker.

Arion, Lord of Atlantis - that's enough right there, when you think about it...just the title alone captures the imagination of a child already enraptured with the legends and mysteries of that vanished civilization. But there he is, standing over a vanquished foe, crimson-lined midnight blue cape swirling around a superhero frame enrobed in intriguing Atlantean-by-way-of-the-Xavier-Institute garb, laser eyes burning with suggested god-like power, clenched fists glowing with supernatural energy that has just been unleashed and is pent up to strike again, hair swirling in a freeze frame of motion, and a visage of fury glowering at both his next opponent and the kid at the comics rack with the unspoken yet implicit question: "You want some of this?"

Arion's opponent? Clearly doomed. The child beholding the cover? Now moving toward the checkout counter, with this magical Arion #1 tome clenched tightly in his hands. Sixty cents plunked down would claim the treasure, in an age of civilized comic book prices. 

Like the title, the Jan Duursema cover art alone could have sold the book. But there was something else. "No. 1." First issue. A chance to get in on the ground floor. Irresistible to the comic book fan who was not able to afford to buy every issue of every title every month of every year. This could be the Next Big Thing, and by God, this kid was going to be in on it.

The Frogger ad was a clear reminder the year was 1982. But once the front cover was pulled back, the reader was transported into a distant past. Words and visuals of another and greater age were splashed across these pages, scroll-like narrative bubbles unfolding a history previously untold. Even in the twilight dim of a backseat in the 7-Eleven parking lot, it was clear this wasn't your typical superhero romp. And perhaps that was to be expected from a title inspired by the works of Plato and Larry Niven, and birthed from the whimisical-yet-weighty pages of D.C.'s Warlord.

Picking up Arion #1 felt like picking up a shard of something impossibly old on a deserted beach, something that hummed with a strange, cold energy. It’s like these creators found an old, moldy ancient manuscript and decided to print it.

Duursema's art, with its flowing lines and intricate details, perfectly captured this world. You could almost feel the water pressing in, the iridescent glow of the Atlantean cities, the sinister glint in the eyes of his enemies. It felt ancient, almost primal, as if Arion's tale had been etched onto the walls of a forgotten sea cave millennia ago.

Arion himself? He was a demigod and a sorcerer. A powerful one. Not a muscle-bound bruiser, but a man wielding magic that felt less like parlor tricks and more like forces of nature. His adventures weren't about punching villains; they were about manipulating elemental powers, confronting elder evils, and navigating a society steeped in traditions as alien as the ocean floor. 

This wasn't a comic designed to be a pop culture sensation. It was less The New Teen Titans and more Gilgamesh. This was for the reader who liked their fantasy sophisticated, and their worlds suffused with a sense of immense, forgotten history. It was for those of us who understood that beneath the glittering surface of the familiar, there were always older, stranger stories waiting. Stories that sometimes, just sometimes, broke through the waves and demanded to be told.

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